


Can't Get No Satisfaction

by MotelsandDiners



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (Explicit?) Language, F/M, Failed Persuasion, Flirting, Reader Insert, Suggestive Themes, Teasing, mild manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9397202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MotelsandDiners/pseuds/MotelsandDiners
Summary: Dean usually leaves you to your own devices, doesn't bother you, respects your boundaries. But sometimes, when he really wants something, he pushes those buttons, pushes them until they break. If anybody asks why you buy so many batteries, you're prepared to tell them you're worried about a power outage. You're not prepared to tell them that you won't share, though. You need those batteries.





	

A light knock at the door has you looking up in curiosity, your focus torn from the book in your lap.

“Hey,” Dean greets from the threshold, leaning on the doorjamb with just perhaps a bit too much swagger. The little shit always laid the charm on thick when he wanted something, and it wasn’t exactly a secret that he knew you had a small ‘thing’ for bad boys.

There was something inherently sexy about a man when he didn’t give a damn about anything, when he was recklessly careless.

And, yes, you had said those exact words to him. Granted, it had been under the effects of alcohol, but that was redundant. He knew and he used it, the sly, manipulative, broody, mouth-watering, sexy son of a bitch.

He clears his throat with a small smile, a knowing glint in his eye and complete complacency in extorting your weakness. Bastard.

You cough, grip the edges of your book tighter and sigh as irritated as you can pretend to be at the moment. “What?”

He grins, perfect teeth flashing in a display of arrogance and boyish smugness that hadn’t lessened with his age. If anything, it only got worse.

“I need your help.” He says, deliberately slides his hands into his front pockets and you can’t help but watch the denim struggle and strain with the action, bunch up in areas that tug him skin tight, and then flatten under the direction of his hands.

You swallow a couple times, blink away the ‘fuck me’ you know you have in your eyes, and try to remember what sass sounds like coming out of your mouth, how it should sound. “Of course, you do. Once. You only have to wash, rinse and repeat once.”

He chuckles, eyes crinkling, but he tilts his head, peers down at you from across the room with his hands in his pockets- Jesus, the denim there _strangles_ him- and licks his goddamned, perfect lips and you nearly whine in response.

“Trust me, sweetheart, I know how to take a shower,”

Oh, fuck, innuendo is so heavy you just about question him, because _Goddamn, I wanna know how he takes a shower_.

Ugh, why did he have to do this every time he needed something? He was the reason your vibrator needed new batteries every week. Speaking of, you knew what you were doing later…

Somehow, you muster up more sarcasm, though it lacks the appropriate note of dedication. “Answer’s the same for baths too,” Your blood is absolutely rushing at this point, and your muscles jump, jolt like you’ve been shocked by static.

And then he drops the smile to smirk, earnestly amused, maybe a little cocky, and he quirks one expressive eyebrow and-

_Fuuuuuu-_

“Jesus Christ, what the Hell do you want?!” you hiss out in a rush and barely restrain yourself from throwing your book across the room at him.

He hums, pinches his cheeks high with a sweet smile, an apology that doesn’t really register in your mind under the assault of the ‘perfect’ he’s throwing at you. “I need your help. More importantly, I need your hands,”

_Oh, Lord, I swear if he’s going where I hope he’s going._

“I’m a simple man, with simple needs,” he says like he’s introducing himself to a conference room of stiff-necked suits, and you decipher his words slowly.

_‘Simple man’. Bullshi-_

“I enjoy the simple things,” he continues, tossing an indifferent look around your room, the right amount of ‘I don’t care’ in his striking emerald eyes. He tips his chin when he looks at you, those pouty lips accented by a change in angle. “There are some things that aren’t simple, though.”

_Yeah, no kidding, champ. Keeping myself on this side of the room while you stand there hotter than fuck-all…I should get a damn medal,_ you think.

“There are some things a simple man like me can’t handle,” he muses with ease, like a burden has been lifted off his shoulders, shoulders he shifts. You just about drool watching them roll under the fabric of his t-shirt, create shadows and dips you’d love to run your fingers over, maybe bite.

He seemed like the kind of guy that would enjoy ‘little’ love-bites.

He watches your eyes go to bedroom mode, and knows he’s got you. “Things that need a woman’s touch.” You nod dumbly at him, and he tucks his bottom lip into his mouth to pinch between his teeth, stall for a moment just to get you sucked in even more.

He doubts you realize it, but you’ve been slowly leaning forward, ever since he put his hands in his pockets, and he almost feels bad for playing on your weakness. Almost.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” he asks you, sounding certain despite the punctuation of his sentence.

You swallow your heart back down into its cavity, recircuit your system to operate as it’s needed, specifically, your mouth. “What do you need?”

That look, like he’s channeling 1970s Eastwood and Brando, just about knocks you over and it’s beyond you that you’ve bent the book in your hands beyond repair. And he talks, talks quietly, softly and specifically enough that somehow the words themselves are lost on you and all that matters is that low timber. It rakes down your spine, slides around like velvet and dips, quick and sharp and direct, like he can control where his voice goes after it tumbles off his supple, kissable lips.

“Can you do my laundry for me?”

A beat passes between you where you file away the heat at the crux of your thighs, the lady-killer stare he has going on, the fact that it’s fifteen footsteps that separate the two of you, and only fifteen…

Then you let his words drop, their meaning and not their sound.

_Laundry. He…wants me to do his laundry._

The fact that he’s just made you hornier than you’ve ever been in your entire life and he hasn’t even touched you has another wave of arousal seizing you down to your very cells. And the fact that you were going to be left that way because of him with no reciprocation…

“Get out.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You heard me, Steve McQueen. Get out.”

He goes pleasantly speechless, blinks a few times in disbelief and stares at you, wondering if you’re jerking him around. But when he sees your eyes narrow, your usually smiling lips purse in annoyance, he straightens, twitches his expression somewhere along the plane of regret, and slides back into the hallway.

“You want this shut? You probably want this shut.” He fumbles for the doorknob, slips a few times before he tugs it shut, but it looks more like he claws it shut because he’s jumping his gaze between you and the door so fast he can’t focus on either.

You sigh when he disappears from your view, relief from his departure is short lived though. The last five minutes resurface with the promise of repetition, almost like a catchy song, and this time you really do throw your book across the room.

You flop back on your bed, a hand tight in your hair. “I’m gonna need new batteries. Tonight.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tried my hand at writing a reader-insert. It's not my usual cup of tea, but I wanted to see how it would turn out. Let me know what you think...


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